Dear Electric Company:
I would like to thank you and your dedicated crew members for going above and beyond this morning, providing a personal wake-up call at 7:50 a.m.
See, I have a habit of sometimes hitting the snooze button, and this morning was no exception. I'd been planning on giving myself an extra twenty minutes or so, so I reset my alarm and drifted back into peaceful, sublime slumber.
You, the wise beings you are, knew that I should have awoken. Since phone calls are done to death by hotels and overly chipper parents, you took early morning cheer to a whole new level. You parked your utility vehicle about seven feet from my sleeping head and just let 'er run! Flashing lights, idling engine and all!
Wow! You guys are great! There was no way any sleeper, even a deep one such as myself, could block that out! A really big, loud truck! Parked in the driveway right by my bedroom window! You did all that, just for me?
I truly thought that it was the ultimate gesture -- risking me running out and beating your head against the hood of the truck and all (you know how cranky I can get when I've been unexpectedly woken up).
But then? Oh, then you improved upon yourself.
In order to maintain the facade of general public service, you cut my power! You knew that the best way for me to fully awaken would be for me to have to shower in the dark. To find clothes in the dark (because, after all, I did appreciate your efforts, but I wasn't going to open the blinds, let light in and flash you), and brush my hair in the dark!
And you were right! Did I wake up quickly or what! Unfettered with the things that usually provide early-morning distractions -- such as, you know, light, music -- I was a real spitfire this morning! I mean, you should have HEARD some of the really fully-conscious things I was saying to you guys as I walked around, squinting into my mirror! I was in rare form, that's for sure. I don't know if I've felt that AWAKE in a REALLY long time!
Now, I don't want to take up too much of your time. I know there are a lot of people out there who are still sleeping, maybe tossing and turning a little bit, waiting for you guys to roll on up with your flashing orange lights and serious muffler issues.
So, in conclusion, I just want to say again that that really meant a lot to me. It demonstrated that special something, the way you all rolled out of your beds at an unspeakably early hour so you could force me out of my own before 8 a.m.
I'll never forget this gesture, Dearest of Electric Companies. And if you ever do it again, I'll be able to wake up really quickly and thank you in person.
I apologize in advance for slamming you into your vehicle's orange hood.
With utmost appreciation,
Victoria
5.30.2006
After popular, overwhelming demand (read: Hi, Michelle):
Irish accent. An impressive tan, close-cropped hair, blue eyes and a blue shirt that matched perfectly. Strong build. I decided he was a footballer.
An Irish footballer. Did I mention the accent?
There I am, standing outside an Irish pub. I have a pint waiting for me inside. And an Irish footballer is walking up to me.
Hi. Hello. Hellllloooo.
That's when he asks me if he could give me a piggy-back ride.
?????
Did I mention he asked me for a piggy-back ride with an accent?
Thank God I am on the phone with Beth, who can now vouch for the authenticity of the exchange.
A piggy-back ride? Haha, no, no piggy-back rides. I'm on the telephone.
"That's OK. I'll run fast."
The double entendre is making me laugh out loud. And he is laughing too. A wonderful, warm Irish laugh.
Did I mention the accent?
Now, maybe it's just me. But when did introducing oneself - wait, no, not even introducing oneself, as he's still known only as Irish Footballer in my mind - with a piggy-back ride offer become something that's done? Why does this happen when my friend is inside the pub, completely unaware of the fact that I'm weighing the pros and cons of accepting a piggy-back ride from an Irish stranger who could run fast and carry me away to God knows where?
And why do I somehow decide that I don't accept piggy-back rides from strangers - even of the hot, Irish, could-be-footballer kind?
Questions for the ages. Harumph.
Now, in other, non-requested news. If given an opportunity within the next few weeks, here are some things I recommend doing:
- Feel like a walking iPod commerical (in a good way). Walk around listening to any of the following: Ryan Montbleau Band's cover of "If You Want Me to Stay" (04.29.06, available on archive.org); Pat McGee Band covering "Stuck In the Middle With You" (04.23.06, on archive.org and from a show I attended) with Stephen Kellogg and the Sixers and Tyler Hilton; Matt Nathanson's "Amazing Again" (10.20.05, on archive and also from a show I attended). Feel your footsteps dance along. Check your shadow to make sure it's not going crazy as it trails behind you.
- Really look closely at flowers, plants, shrubbery ("You must return here with a shrubbery!"). I've been taking a number of photographs of greenery lately, as it gives me good practice working my digital camera's closeup features. But it's turned into something that's fascinated me for two days.
- Ride in a convertible/top-down Jeep south on 93 in Boston. At night. Stare up at the bottom of the roadways and the top of the Zakim Bridge. If you've done so, no explanation is necessary. If you haven't, just do.
- Go to see the debut of a new show at The Tribe. "I'm the Rhoda" will grace The Tribe Theater's stage on Friday night, and I'll be there to support some of the funniest, most glorious ladies in Boston. You should be there too. Info about The Tribe (which always provides a good time) is available right here.
Irish accent. An impressive tan, close-cropped hair, blue eyes and a blue shirt that matched perfectly. Strong build. I decided he was a footballer.
An Irish footballer. Did I mention the accent?
There I am, standing outside an Irish pub. I have a pint waiting for me inside. And an Irish footballer is walking up to me.
Hi. Hello. Hellllloooo.
That's when he asks me if he could give me a piggy-back ride.
?????
Did I mention he asked me for a piggy-back ride with an accent?
Thank God I am on the phone with Beth, who can now vouch for the authenticity of the exchange.
A piggy-back ride? Haha, no, no piggy-back rides. I'm on the telephone.
"That's OK. I'll run fast."
The double entendre is making me laugh out loud. And he is laughing too. A wonderful, warm Irish laugh.
Did I mention the accent?
Now, maybe it's just me. But when did introducing oneself - wait, no, not even introducing oneself, as he's still known only as Irish Footballer in my mind - with a piggy-back ride offer become something that's done? Why does this happen when my friend is inside the pub, completely unaware of the fact that I'm weighing the pros and cons of accepting a piggy-back ride from an Irish stranger who could run fast and carry me away to God knows where?
And why do I somehow decide that I don't accept piggy-back rides from strangers - even of the hot, Irish, could-be-footballer kind?
Questions for the ages. Harumph.
Now, in other, non-requested news. If given an opportunity within the next few weeks, here are some things I recommend doing:
- Feel like a walking iPod commerical (in a good way). Walk around listening to any of the following: Ryan Montbleau Band's cover of "If You Want Me to Stay" (04.29.06, available on archive.org); Pat McGee Band covering "Stuck In the Middle With You" (04.23.06, on archive.org and from a show I attended) with Stephen Kellogg and the Sixers and Tyler Hilton; Matt Nathanson's "Amazing Again" (10.20.05, on archive and also from a show I attended). Feel your footsteps dance along. Check your shadow to make sure it's not going crazy as it trails behind you.
- Really look closely at flowers, plants, shrubbery ("You must return here with a shrubbery!"). I've been taking a number of photographs of greenery lately, as it gives me good practice working my digital camera's closeup features. But it's turned into something that's fascinated me for two days.
- Ride in a convertible/top-down Jeep south on 93 in Boston. At night. Stare up at the bottom of the roadways and the top of the Zakim Bridge. If you've done so, no explanation is necessary. If you haven't, just do.
- Go to see the debut of a new show at The Tribe. "I'm the Rhoda" will grace The Tribe Theater's stage on Friday night, and I'll be there to support some of the funniest, most glorious ladies in Boston. You should be there too. Info about The Tribe (which always provides a good time) is available right here.
5.29.2006
Sometimes you simply luck out. One thing leads to another and you realize you have, for whatever reason, been given a bit of a reward.
I stood alone in an elevator traveling up, and I knew that this was the one bit of alone time I would have to be able to express the brilliant jubilation I'd been trying to contain.
So I did what I'd like to think anyone would do. Taking advantage of the moment, I jumped up and down, squealed and danced about for a good solid 15 seconds. And when the doors opened, I walked out into the hallway - and one of the most surreal, fun experiences I've ever had - the very picture of composure, style and grace.
***
I can't help it. This kind of thing doesn't happen at home, but I always wander into magical moments in Davis Square. Which is why...anyway.
I'd hopped from the green line to red, on a trajectory that would land me at the Someday in time to meet up with M and R before Anna's and a singer-songwriter night at The Burren. I'm standing on the corner near the cafe, and Michelle has just told me that she's parking her car and will meet up with me in a moment.
The trees in the park glitter, golden lights shimmering among the leaves. Everyone seems to be taking advantage of a gorgeous night that will be followed by a leisurely Monday - most of the benches are full, the tables are spoken for and people are eager for any other available flat surface.
I cross the street and lean against a lamp post as the busker launches into the familar hum of "America."
(When it comes to all-time favorites, I tend to select songs over bands. "America" has long been among the top five on my list, and I have been voraciously listening to the Ryan Montbleau cover of the song downloaded about two weeks ago.)
The busker's audience - young, old, couples, singletons - nod heads in time, sighing and smiling as they close their eyes or lean back to look up at the sky and the twinkling lights...
Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together, I've got some real estate here in my bag...
***
Red walls, dark tables. Benches and booths, with a clientele that seems composed of regulars who sip their favorite pints of beer.
As I drink ale with an orange slice garnish, I could see why. I would be a regular at The Burren as well - in the meantime, I might have to make a habit of stopping by.
The band performing has prompted a guy and gal near our table to dance like mad. I think a lot of beer also helped them along, but hey. They're funny - drunk, but definitely not obnoxious drunk. I'm dividing my attention among the band, the dancers and the guy in the corner booth who caught my eye.
When the band launches into a cover of "What I Got," we bob our heads and sing along - and suddenly Drunk Dancer Guy is taking my hand and trying to pull me from the bench.
"DANCE with me," he says as I laughingly shake my head and point to my beer. He's persistent, so after several refusals, I laugh at M and stand to dance in the tiny space between our table and the stage.
Applause breaks out and my face turns bright red. The table behind us cheers and hollers as a huge grin breaks across Drunk Dancer Guy's face. I shoot M playful death daggers. She's too busy laughing to care.
The song ends and I receive a Drunk Dancing Guy kiss of the hand. Which, when all is said and done, is awfully sweet, in a hilarious sort of way.
Added bonus? Shared smile with Corner Booth Guy.
Teehee. I love this place.
I stood alone in an elevator traveling up, and I knew that this was the one bit of alone time I would have to be able to express the brilliant jubilation I'd been trying to contain.
So I did what I'd like to think anyone would do. Taking advantage of the moment, I jumped up and down, squealed and danced about for a good solid 15 seconds. And when the doors opened, I walked out into the hallway - and one of the most surreal, fun experiences I've ever had - the very picture of composure, style and grace.
***
I can't help it. This kind of thing doesn't happen at home, but I always wander into magical moments in Davis Square. Which is why...anyway.
I'd hopped from the green line to red, on a trajectory that would land me at the Someday in time to meet up with M and R before Anna's and a singer-songwriter night at The Burren. I'm standing on the corner near the cafe, and Michelle has just told me that she's parking her car and will meet up with me in a moment.
The trees in the park glitter, golden lights shimmering among the leaves. Everyone seems to be taking advantage of a gorgeous night that will be followed by a leisurely Monday - most of the benches are full, the tables are spoken for and people are eager for any other available flat surface.
I cross the street and lean against a lamp post as the busker launches into the familar hum of "America."
(When it comes to all-time favorites, I tend to select songs over bands. "America" has long been among the top five on my list, and I have been voraciously listening to the Ryan Montbleau cover of the song downloaded about two weeks ago.)
The busker's audience - young, old, couples, singletons - nod heads in time, sighing and smiling as they close their eyes or lean back to look up at the sky and the twinkling lights...
Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together, I've got some real estate here in my bag...
***
Red walls, dark tables. Benches and booths, with a clientele that seems composed of regulars who sip their favorite pints of beer.
As I drink ale with an orange slice garnish, I could see why. I would be a regular at The Burren as well - in the meantime, I might have to make a habit of stopping by.
The band performing has prompted a guy and gal near our table to dance like mad. I think a lot of beer also helped them along, but hey. They're funny - drunk, but definitely not obnoxious drunk. I'm dividing my attention among the band, the dancers and the guy in the corner booth who caught my eye.
When the band launches into a cover of "What I Got," we bob our heads and sing along - and suddenly Drunk Dancer Guy is taking my hand and trying to pull me from the bench.
"DANCE with me," he says as I laughingly shake my head and point to my beer. He's persistent, so after several refusals, I laugh at M and stand to dance in the tiny space between our table and the stage.
Applause breaks out and my face turns bright red. The table behind us cheers and hollers as a huge grin breaks across Drunk Dancer Guy's face. I shoot M playful death daggers. She's too busy laughing to care.
The song ends and I receive a Drunk Dancing Guy kiss of the hand. Which, when all is said and done, is awfully sweet, in a hilarious sort of way.
Added bonus? Shared smile with Corner Booth Guy.
Teehee. I love this place.
5.25.2006
5.24.2006
Georgie James!
Yes!
Know when you hear a song or an artist for the first time, and your ears perk up and you really start to pay attention?
It's something like that.
Yes!
Know when you hear a song or an artist for the first time, and your ears perk up and you really start to pay attention?
It's something like that.
5.22.2006
Ever the embodiment of grace and poise, I've already managed in two hours to outdo my usual self. Hiding away within a roll of bubblewrap today might not be that bad an idea.
8:30 a.m. - After accidentally (read: half-consciously) ignoring two alarms, wake up. Realize one doesn't feel particularly well, attribute this to Monday-itis. Roll over, reach for contact lens case.
8:32 a.m. - Finally find contact lens case after it falls under the bed. Open case. Drop contact. Growl menacingly at contact lens. Contact lens does not respond.
8:33 a.m. - Reach for towel. Drop towel. Pick up towel, reach for other towel. Drop other towel.
8:34 a.m. - Walk toward bedroom door. Run into dresser.
8:56 a.m. - Realize one has nothing (read: a whole lot but nothing that seems quite right today) to wear.
9:01 a.m. - Drop hairbrush.
9:05 a.m. - Realize boots one wants to wear have fallen into Bermuda Triangle.
9:10 a.m. - Realize boots are precisely where one left them - and where one already looked twice.
9:12 a.m. - Misplace phone.
9:13 a.m. - Find phone.
9:20 a.m. - Prepare to turn off bedroom lights, realize one hasn't packed one's phone.
9:21 a.m. - Realize one doesn't know where phone is. Again. Briefly consider Calling In Destructive. Decide instead to take one's chances.
9:23 a.m. - Find phone. Explain morning to laughing roommate and wonder what calamities await oneself if one decides to run on treadmill later in day.
8:30 a.m. - After accidentally (read: half-consciously) ignoring two alarms, wake up. Realize one doesn't feel particularly well, attribute this to Monday-itis. Roll over, reach for contact lens case.
8:32 a.m. - Finally find contact lens case after it falls under the bed. Open case. Drop contact. Growl menacingly at contact lens. Contact lens does not respond.
8:33 a.m. - Reach for towel. Drop towel. Pick up towel, reach for other towel. Drop other towel.
8:34 a.m. - Walk toward bedroom door. Run into dresser.
8:56 a.m. - Realize one has nothing (read: a whole lot but nothing that seems quite right today) to wear.
9:01 a.m. - Drop hairbrush.
9:05 a.m. - Realize boots one wants to wear have fallen into Bermuda Triangle.
9:10 a.m. - Realize boots are precisely where one left them - and where one already looked twice.
9:12 a.m. - Misplace phone.
9:13 a.m. - Find phone.
9:20 a.m. - Prepare to turn off bedroom lights, realize one hasn't packed one's phone.
9:21 a.m. - Realize one doesn't know where phone is. Again. Briefly consider Calling In Destructive. Decide instead to take one's chances.
9:23 a.m. - Find phone. Explain morning to laughing roommate and wonder what calamities await oneself if one decides to run on treadmill later in day.
5.19.2006
Blame it on the rain...yeah, yeah...
C'mon. How could I not bust that out? I haven't heard any references to Milli Vanilli during this whole Shoutout to Noah experience that began for me in Massachusetts last weekend and continues now for me in Vermont.
Frankly, I was rather disappointed in such a grievous oversight.
But, in all seriousness (as much as one can be serious when referencing the MV lipsynchers), I could blame (or at least attribute) the rain for a lot right now:
- for not asking myself what the hell was going on at 2:15 a.m. Saturday morning, as friends and I scurried to our unexpected detination
- for having to rock my little black dress with little black and white Chuck Taylors as I watched my brother graduate (this was funny and fitting at the same time)
- for wanting to check in with various potential flood-ees
- for jumping into a huge puddle so as to document the (absolutely minimal) flooding in my grandmother's driveway (I made my way through the Great Floods of 2006 in as equally as fortunate - and wussy - a manner as I got through Hurricane Gloria in '86 - only this time, I didn't get a t-shirt documenting my presence for it)
- for longer than expected (and decidedly less relaxing) drives to and from Massachusetts last weekend and early this week
- for feeling lethargic, cranky and tired all week
- for agreeing to, and feeling happy to, see "The DaVinci Code" this evening, even as the reviews suck
- for feeling absolutely certain that the storm clouds have followed me from Massachusetts to Vermont
- for looking into how much it would cost to round up two of every animal and herd them all into some big boat
- and for the vending machine giving me a Sierra Mist when I selected an Orange Crush just now, the one time I decide to drink a soda.
OK, so maybe the last one has nothing to do with the rain. I'm blaming it anyway.
'Cause the rain don't mind
And the rain don't care
You got to blame it on something...
C'mon. How could I not bust that out? I haven't heard any references to Milli Vanilli during this whole Shoutout to Noah experience that began for me in Massachusetts last weekend and continues now for me in Vermont.
Frankly, I was rather disappointed in such a grievous oversight.
But, in all seriousness (as much as one can be serious when referencing the MV lipsynchers), I could blame (or at least attribute) the rain for a lot right now:
- for not asking myself what the hell was going on at 2:15 a.m. Saturday morning, as friends and I scurried to our unexpected detination
- for having to rock my little black dress with little black and white Chuck Taylors as I watched my brother graduate (this was funny and fitting at the same time)
- for wanting to check in with various potential flood-ees
- for jumping into a huge puddle so as to document the (absolutely minimal) flooding in my grandmother's driveway (I made my way through the Great Floods of 2006 in as equally as fortunate - and wussy - a manner as I got through Hurricane Gloria in '86 - only this time, I didn't get a t-shirt documenting my presence for it)
- for longer than expected (and decidedly less relaxing) drives to and from Massachusetts last weekend and early this week
- for feeling lethargic, cranky and tired all week
- for agreeing to, and feeling happy to, see "The DaVinci Code" this evening, even as the reviews suck
- for feeling absolutely certain that the storm clouds have followed me from Massachusetts to Vermont
- for looking into how much it would cost to round up two of every animal and herd them all into some big boat
- and for the vending machine giving me a Sierra Mist when I selected an Orange Crush just now, the one time I decide to drink a soda.
OK, so maybe the last one has nothing to do with the rain. I'm blaming it anyway.
'Cause the rain don't mind
And the rain don't care
You got to blame it on something...
5.17.2006
Why commencement activities are more fun in 2006 than they were in 2002
OR
Why text messaging rules
CAST:
T - A student, sitting among his graduating peers in the orchestra seats
V - T's sister, sitting in the front row of the balcony
T: this is the WORST stage production i have ever seen.
V: oh my goodness. ouch.
T: Omg. wtf.
V: lol
V: (during Kerry commencement address) Beer? tom cruise? MANNY? wrong on so many levels.
T: ha! indeed. wait. does he even know which one manny is?
V: isn't he the one who went to new york?
T: Yeah. big pappi manny ramerez
V: this is kerry gone wild! i think he needs a hug. i'll give you ten dollars. dooo it.
T: Somehow i feel that would end badly.
V: Define badly. taser?
T: whos hungry? dis kid right here.
V: (shortly before T walks to accept his degree) Don't trip. Heh.
T: Yer mom tripped.
V: I adore you.
V: (after T accepts degree) Wouldn't it suck to have to walk that if your foot was asleep?
T: Yeah, it would. i want food.
V: pizza, row ten? eat your degree.
T: Mmm. $120000 of yummy.
Shortly after this, I left the ceremony to walk up to Winter Street. T spent the first moments of his post-collegiate life enthusiastically devouring a falafel I had waiting for him upon exiting the theater.
After all, our parents would have been terribly upset to find his degree marred with bite marks.
(A whole slew of new photos are available on the trusty flickr account - click on the photo to go to the rest.)
OR
Why text messaging rules
CAST:
T - A student, sitting among his graduating peers in the orchestra seats
V - T's sister, sitting in the front row of the balcony
T: this is the WORST stage production i have ever seen.
V: oh my goodness. ouch.
T: Omg. wtf.
V: lol
V: (during Kerry commencement address) Beer? tom cruise? MANNY? wrong on so many levels.
T: ha! indeed. wait. does he even know which one manny is?
V: isn't he the one who went to new york?
T: Yeah. big pappi manny ramerez
V: this is kerry gone wild! i think he needs a hug. i'll give you ten dollars. dooo it.
T: Somehow i feel that would end badly.
V: Define badly. taser?
T: whos hungry? dis kid right here.
V: (shortly before T walks to accept his degree) Don't trip. Heh.
T: Yer mom tripped.
V: I adore you.
V: (after T accepts degree) Wouldn't it suck to have to walk that if your foot was asleep?
T: Yeah, it would. i want food.
V: pizza, row ten? eat your degree.
T: Mmm. $120000 of yummy.
Shortly after this, I left the ceremony to walk up to Winter Street. T spent the first moments of his post-collegiate life enthusiastically devouring a falafel I had waiting for him upon exiting the theater.
After all, our parents would have been terribly upset to find his degree marred with bite marks.
(A whole slew of new photos are available on the trusty flickr account - click on the photo to go to the rest.)
5.11.2006
Let's kick things off with a moment of thanks sent to the Boston Red Sox, for defeating the Yankees and keeping Johnny Damon hitless after five at-bats. Lovely!
So. A series of high-energy days approach.
Tomorrow (I write this Thursday night, referring to Friday) brings traveling friends and local friends together to watch the five men of the Ryan Montbleau Band tear up Higher Ground (a show, as my prior post indicates, to which I am very much looking forward). At some point this weekend, I steer my trusty steed, DT, onto familiar highway territory, as I'm Massachusetts-bound. I'm to get my graduation glam going on before attending/celebrating my brother's acceptance of a degree from Emerson College on Monday. (Insert sisterly pride here. This is also the spot at which we ignore that Friday marks four years since our narrator graduated from college.)
Good times. I'll return with tales and digital snapshot goodness, as my camera has returned from the black hole into which it sank when I left my battery charger in Maine over New Year's. All charged up and ready to go - er, snap, capture? Right. Moving on...
In other news: I recently wrote a music biography - my first - for singer-songwriter Chad Perrone. The bio, which includes information about Chad and his upcoming debut solo album, is now up and running on his website, so check it out - and note that a few of the tracks are available for your listening enjoyment. The album, "Used To Dream," drops on May 23, and I highly recommend it. Those liking what they hear (or those who just trust my music recommendations - AHEM) can pre-order "Used To Dream" from the fun, friendly computers that keep things orderly over at the Awarestore.
So. A series of high-energy days approach.
Tomorrow (I write this Thursday night, referring to Friday) brings traveling friends and local friends together to watch the five men of the Ryan Montbleau Band tear up Higher Ground (a show, as my prior post indicates, to which I am very much looking forward). At some point this weekend, I steer my trusty steed, DT, onto familiar highway territory, as I'm Massachusetts-bound. I'm to get my graduation glam going on before attending/celebrating my brother's acceptance of a degree from Emerson College on Monday. (Insert sisterly pride here. This is also the spot at which we ignore that Friday marks four years since our narrator graduated from college.)
Good times. I'll return with tales and digital snapshot goodness, as my camera has returned from the black hole into which it sank when I left my battery charger in Maine over New Year's. All charged up and ready to go - er, snap, capture? Right. Moving on...
In other news: I recently wrote a music biography - my first - for singer-songwriter Chad Perrone. The bio, which includes information about Chad and his upcoming debut solo album, is now up and running on his website, so check it out - and note that a few of the tracks are available for your listening enjoyment. The album, "Used To Dream," drops on May 23, and I highly recommend it. Those liking what they hear (or those who just trust my music recommendations - AHEM) can pre-order "Used To Dream" from the fun, friendly computers that keep things orderly over at the Awarestore.
4:48 a.m.
I'm lying on my side, staring at the window near the corner of my bedroom. I can see the faint glow of early sunrise seeping in, casting subtle illumination against the walls.
I'm not a fan. I wasn't a fan of staring at this window when it was midnight. Or 2 a.m. Or at 3:12.
I've been tired, stressed and dangerously close to tears all week. But I haven't cried - I haven't let myself. I'm instead gritting my teeth or biting my lip until the point comes in which I need a release.
That said, I haven't found myself lying awake in the middle of the night until tonight. Or this morning. Whatever.
It doesn't feel like I'm there quite yet. But I'm awfully close.
9:47 a.m.
And now I'm living the real-life, driver's version of "Paperboy" - and I'm hating my younger self for loving the game as a youth.
Two routes I could take on my daily morning drive. The usual - a turn to the right - is blocked to one lane by power line maintainance. I turn left instead. Another quick left - and the road has been reduced to one lane for the same damn thing. I navigate. I avoid the woman who opened her car door a nanosecond before I passed by. I steer around the bicyclist, around the utility vehicle, stop short when the car ahead decides to suddenly switch lanes AND avoid the UPS truck that has parked in my lane (as well as the large truck approaching in the opposite lane). As I pull into my parking lot - avoiding the truck that is blindly trying to navigate its way out, I notice the my hands have an iron grip on the steering wheel.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow. I just have to get through two more days before I receive my reward - hours of stress relief, through dancing with friends and singing along with Ryan Montbleau.
For the first time in a long time, I feel myself preparing for some serious musical theraphy. My focus is entirely on myself feeling better. I've earned the right to be a little selfish.
In the meantime: keep the eyes focused ahead and get through.
I'm lying on my side, staring at the window near the corner of my bedroom. I can see the faint glow of early sunrise seeping in, casting subtle illumination against the walls.
I'm not a fan. I wasn't a fan of staring at this window when it was midnight. Or 2 a.m. Or at 3:12.
I've been tired, stressed and dangerously close to tears all week. But I haven't cried - I haven't let myself. I'm instead gritting my teeth or biting my lip until the point comes in which I need a release.
That said, I haven't found myself lying awake in the middle of the night until tonight. Or this morning. Whatever.
It doesn't feel like I'm there quite yet. But I'm awfully close.
9:47 a.m.
And now I'm living the real-life, driver's version of "Paperboy" - and I'm hating my younger self for loving the game as a youth.
Two routes I could take on my daily morning drive. The usual - a turn to the right - is blocked to one lane by power line maintainance. I turn left instead. Another quick left - and the road has been reduced to one lane for the same damn thing. I navigate. I avoid the woman who opened her car door a nanosecond before I passed by. I steer around the bicyclist, around the utility vehicle, stop short when the car ahead decides to suddenly switch lanes AND avoid the UPS truck that has parked in my lane (as well as the large truck approaching in the opposite lane). As I pull into my parking lot - avoiding the truck that is blindly trying to navigate its way out, I notice the my hands have an iron grip on the steering wheel.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow. I just have to get through two more days before I receive my reward - hours of stress relief, through dancing with friends and singing along with Ryan Montbleau.
For the first time in a long time, I feel myself preparing for some serious musical theraphy. My focus is entirely on myself feeling better. I've earned the right to be a little selfish.
In the meantime: keep the eyes focused ahead and get through.
5.10.2006
V: (Answering telephone) Hello?
Mom: Are you sitting down? I have bad news.
V: What's going on? Real bad news or fake bad news?
M: Are you sitting down?
V: Fake bad news. OK. Yes, I'm sitting.
M: Your brother is smarter than you.
V: Huh?
M: He's smarter than you. You just have to accept this.
V: How is he smarter than me?
M: He got his GPA today.
V: And?
M: (Says a very admirable, magna cum laude grade point average.)
V: Oh, come on. He's a film student. All he has to do is make things pretty.
M: He said you'd say that. After all, he's smart like that. Don't worry, your father and I still love you. You're still special to us.
V: Uh, huh. Thank me for being your guinea pig.
M: What?
V: The trial run. You know, you have the first one, work out all the kinks, then have your superior child.
M: You've been a good guinea pig.
V: Thanks. Besides, it's your own fault.
M: How's that?
V: Well, if you'd wanted me to be smart, you should have pushed for me to be a lawyer or something. You know, with a lot of Latin.
M: I'm glad you're taking it so well.
V: Don't worry, if it starts to bother me, I'll consult my wiser brother. The Tommy Lama.
M: Call me later?
V: If I remember. Don't blame me if I don't. You know how it is. Remembering things is tough on my feeble little brain.
M: I love you.
V: But just remember this - I was always a smart kid! I was a marathoner! Tom's a collegiate sprinter!
(Later)
Tom: (Answering telephone) Hey sister.
V: Hey brother. Thanks a lot.
T: What?
V: I spent 25 years cultivating my reputation as a smart person. It only takes you four little years to shatter that.
T: (Laughing) Mom and Dad told you, huh?
V: Congratuations. You suck.
T: Ha. I love you too.
Mom: Are you sitting down? I have bad news.
V: What's going on? Real bad news or fake bad news?
M: Are you sitting down?
V: Fake bad news. OK. Yes, I'm sitting.
M: Your brother is smarter than you.
V: Huh?
M: He's smarter than you. You just have to accept this.
V: How is he smarter than me?
M: He got his GPA today.
V: And?
M: (Says a very admirable, magna cum laude grade point average.)
V: Oh, come on. He's a film student. All he has to do is make things pretty.
M: He said you'd say that. After all, he's smart like that. Don't worry, your father and I still love you. You're still special to us.
V: Uh, huh. Thank me for being your guinea pig.
M: What?
V: The trial run. You know, you have the first one, work out all the kinks, then have your superior child.
M: You've been a good guinea pig.
V: Thanks. Besides, it's your own fault.
M: How's that?
V: Well, if you'd wanted me to be smart, you should have pushed for me to be a lawyer or something. You know, with a lot of Latin.
M: I'm glad you're taking it so well.
V: Don't worry, if it starts to bother me, I'll consult my wiser brother. The Tommy Lama.
M: Call me later?
V: If I remember. Don't blame me if I don't. You know how it is. Remembering things is tough on my feeble little brain.
M: I love you.
V: But just remember this - I was always a smart kid! I was a marathoner! Tom's a collegiate sprinter!
(Later)
Tom: (Answering telephone) Hey sister.
V: Hey brother. Thanks a lot.
T: What?
V: I spent 25 years cultivating my reputation as a smart person. It only takes you four little years to shatter that.
T: (Laughing) Mom and Dad told you, huh?
V: Congratuations. You suck.
T: Ha. I love you too.
5.09.2006
My little city-town is known neither for its taxicabs nor its catcalls.
So forgive me if I seem a bit puzzled today, having walked up the street past two groups of people in the midst of a taxi hail-off and then back down the street, past a man who actually whistled and drawled "yummy" as my friend and I passed by.
So where am I today? I knew I should have taken that left turn at Albuquerque.
So forgive me if I seem a bit puzzled today, having walked up the street past two groups of people in the midst of a taxi hail-off and then back down the street, past a man who actually whistled and drawled "yummy" as my friend and I passed by.
So where am I today? I knew I should have taken that left turn at Albuquerque.
Thought for the day - er, night:
"Songs are what I listen to, almost to the exclusion of everything else. I don't listen to classical music or jazz very often, and when people ask me what music I like, I find it very difficult to reply, because they usually want names of people, and I can only give them song titles. And mostly all I have to say about these songs is that I love them, and want to sing along to them, and get cross when these other people don't like them as much as I do ..."
- Nick Hornby, Introduction to "Songbook," a brilliant collection of essays about songs that if you love music, you need to read. If you haven't already. I'd love to assume that you have. It's one of the three books I'm reading at the moment, the only one of which I am re-reading (for the millionth time).
"Songs are what I listen to, almost to the exclusion of everything else. I don't listen to classical music or jazz very often, and when people ask me what music I like, I find it very difficult to reply, because they usually want names of people, and I can only give them song titles. And mostly all I have to say about these songs is that I love them, and want to sing along to them, and get cross when these other people don't like them as much as I do ..."
- Nick Hornby, Introduction to "Songbook," a brilliant collection of essays about songs that if you love music, you need to read. If you haven't already. I'd love to assume that you have. It's one of the three books I'm reading at the moment, the only one of which I am re-reading (for the millionth time).
5.07.2006
The man sitting at the window table has light brown curls, a pair of sunglasses atop his head. His eyes are down, focused intently on the book he's been reading, but I'm imagining them to be warm and light brown. Perhaps with flecks of amber in them. For some reason, I've always looked for a pair of eyes like that - but the ones I've found have always been either chocolate brown, blue or one particularly memorable pair of green.
He is foppish, I've decided, strictly because the word seems to suit him. Beth and I will later debate the proper meaning of the word and how it applies to a man in a coffeeshop, but foppish it is. In the Hugh Grant, pre-prostitute manner of the word, with more of a New England, master's degree spin.
The analysis is making me giggle a little as I sip my latte and converse with my friends. Although the giggles may also have been helped along by the margarita I enjoyed with other friends about an hour prior. Who knows. What I do know is that I had a lunchtime drink and am now drinking coffee, a combination of upper and downer that makes me feel mellow and caffeinated at the same time. I'm rather fond of the sensation.
Muddy's is as sublime as it always is on spring Sundays. We sit at a three-top, one of us working through a stack of papers, two of us reading our respective books. I have Chuck Klosterman's latest propped open before me, and I'm chuckling regularly at the healthy doses of self-deprecation included within. Reading Klosterman is an experience aided by today's coffeehouse music selections - a mix of obscure and familiar pulsing through the speakers and eliciting headbobs from my chair. One particular song kept me guessing about the band until I jumped up to ask the barista.
Death Cab, which explained the sense of familiarity, but (surprisingly) a song I'd never heard of, which explained the puzzlement. It was included in his iPod playlist, and we chatted about the tune for a few moments before I grinned and returned to my chair. I wondered during the short walk whether he was the same employee I'd chatted with about Bright Eyes' "First Day of My Life" several months prior - that gent had been equally charming, but was a different kind of handsome.
That past guy had also been foppish, actually - this one was more James Dean than Hugh Grant.
(And I've demonstrated in the past a particular penchant for James Deans.)
A few minutes later, a song is playing that possesses elements of both rockabilly and alt-country (yes, Virginia, there is a difference) that sounds a bit like Ryan Adams when he's playing with the Cardinals, but I'm not confident enough to make a guess.
(No, I'm not returning to ask James Dean about another song. I will write down snippets of lyrics and find that the song is actually The Weakerthan's "A New Name for Everything" and purchase the song off iTunes.)
I feel good. Better than good. A puzzling mix of sensations running through my body, a good book to read, a hot latte and friends. And - and I believe this to be important - my hair is in pigtailed buns and I have Chuck Taylors on my feet. It's a Sunday afternoon and I am ignoring the work I should do because I've been thinking about it all weekend and my pre-margarita shoulders tensed just thinking about it. I am imagining flirtations with men who make or drink coffee, men I can imagine to be caring and charming, possessing admirable tastes in music and who will likewise appreciate my own.
I'm rebelling and relaxing at the same time. Two things I rarely do, combined to form another mixture of upper and downer, all nestled next to a warm pot of peppermint tea.
He is foppish, I've decided, strictly because the word seems to suit him. Beth and I will later debate the proper meaning of the word and how it applies to a man in a coffeeshop, but foppish it is. In the Hugh Grant, pre-prostitute manner of the word, with more of a New England, master's degree spin.
The analysis is making me giggle a little as I sip my latte and converse with my friends. Although the giggles may also have been helped along by the margarita I enjoyed with other friends about an hour prior. Who knows. What I do know is that I had a lunchtime drink and am now drinking coffee, a combination of upper and downer that makes me feel mellow and caffeinated at the same time. I'm rather fond of the sensation.
Muddy's is as sublime as it always is on spring Sundays. We sit at a three-top, one of us working through a stack of papers, two of us reading our respective books. I have Chuck Klosterman's latest propped open before me, and I'm chuckling regularly at the healthy doses of self-deprecation included within. Reading Klosterman is an experience aided by today's coffeehouse music selections - a mix of obscure and familiar pulsing through the speakers and eliciting headbobs from my chair. One particular song kept me guessing about the band until I jumped up to ask the barista.
Death Cab, which explained the sense of familiarity, but (surprisingly) a song I'd never heard of, which explained the puzzlement. It was included in his iPod playlist, and we chatted about the tune for a few moments before I grinned and returned to my chair. I wondered during the short walk whether he was the same employee I'd chatted with about Bright Eyes' "First Day of My Life" several months prior - that gent had been equally charming, but was a different kind of handsome.
That past guy had also been foppish, actually - this one was more James Dean than Hugh Grant.
(And I've demonstrated in the past a particular penchant for James Deans.)
A few minutes later, a song is playing that possesses elements of both rockabilly and alt-country (yes, Virginia, there is a difference) that sounds a bit like Ryan Adams when he's playing with the Cardinals, but I'm not confident enough to make a guess.
(No, I'm not returning to ask James Dean about another song. I will write down snippets of lyrics and find that the song is actually The Weakerthan's "A New Name for Everything" and purchase the song off iTunes.)
I feel good. Better than good. A puzzling mix of sensations running through my body, a good book to read, a hot latte and friends. And - and I believe this to be important - my hair is in pigtailed buns and I have Chuck Taylors on my feet. It's a Sunday afternoon and I am ignoring the work I should do because I've been thinking about it all weekend and my pre-margarita shoulders tensed just thinking about it. I am imagining flirtations with men who make or drink coffee, men I can imagine to be caring and charming, possessing admirable tastes in music and who will likewise appreciate my own.
I'm rebelling and relaxing at the same time. Two things I rarely do, combined to form another mixture of upper and downer, all nestled next to a warm pot of peppermint tea.
5.06.2006
I'm sure these will be rants heard from throughout the world of Radiohead fans today, but I'll be damned if that doesn't stop me from chiming in.
- Scalpers sure cleaned up with this one. While concert hopefuls were busy scrambling to type in the right cryptic words on Ticketmaster at 10 a.m. this morning, scalpers were already posting hundreds of listings for overpriced tickets on various websites. Stubhub is now at $223. Meanwhile, those hoping to actually ATTEND the show, were shut out.
- A two ticket limit? Even if my flatmates and I were lucky enough to get tickets, we wouldn't be able to take in the show together. I don't live in a group house here, people. There are three of us. It shouldn't be impossible.
- Tickets were sold out in five minutes.
- Ticketmaster doesn't offer any indication about when a show has sold out, leaving hopefuls such as myself still clicking Web buttons, still typing in stupid words, an hour after tickets went on sale.
- What's up with those words, anyway? Who comes up with them? Who butchers the spelling intentionally? And does that individual look up to the heavens and chortle, "Take THAT! I am writing this WRONG! On PURPOSE!"
Suffice it to say, I will not be taking in my first Radiohead show on June 4 at the Corporate Mad Libs Pavilion. And I'm not particularly pleased at the moment.
- Scalpers sure cleaned up with this one. While concert hopefuls were busy scrambling to type in the right cryptic words on Ticketmaster at 10 a.m. this morning, scalpers were already posting hundreds of listings for overpriced tickets on various websites. Stubhub is now at $223. Meanwhile, those hoping to actually ATTEND the show, were shut out.
- A two ticket limit? Even if my flatmates and I were lucky enough to get tickets, we wouldn't be able to take in the show together. I don't live in a group house here, people. There are three of us. It shouldn't be impossible.
- Tickets were sold out in five minutes.
- Ticketmaster doesn't offer any indication about when a show has sold out, leaving hopefuls such as myself still clicking Web buttons, still typing in stupid words, an hour after tickets went on sale.
- What's up with those words, anyway? Who comes up with them? Who butchers the spelling intentionally? And does that individual look up to the heavens and chortle, "Take THAT! I am writing this WRONG! On PURPOSE!"
Suffice it to say, I will not be taking in my first Radiohead show on June 4 at the Corporate Mad Libs Pavilion. And I'm not particularly pleased at the moment.
5.04.2006
5.03.2006
Chronicles of a Red Sox apartment:
I'm sitting in the living room, half watching the game on NESN, half working on a project at my laptop. A Red Sox rally has temporarily pulled me away from the project, but I consider it a justifiable diversion.
Big hit. "WOO HOO!" I feel the typical silliness when I realize I'm cheering in an empty room, until I hear clapping from the back room. C, also getting some work done, he electing to listen to the game on the radio.
He comes scurrying into the room, his sock-clad feet sliding on the wood floors a second before he falls into the couch cushions. "The broadcasters are going nuts, so I need to see this hit."
We watch the replay, cheering and grinning. He lifts his hands to his head, to adjust the brim on an imaginary cap.
"I need to get a new hat," he says. "I left my other one in Beijing."
I nod. We pause for a moment, silently noting the imaginary elephant suddenly standing in the middle of the room. Do I remark on it? Of course I have to.
"Extra points for you, being able to pull that off. 'Oh yeah, you know. I left my other one in Beijing.'"
I'm sitting in the living room, half watching the game on NESN, half working on a project at my laptop. A Red Sox rally has temporarily pulled me away from the project, but I consider it a justifiable diversion.
Big hit. "WOO HOO!" I feel the typical silliness when I realize I'm cheering in an empty room, until I hear clapping from the back room. C, also getting some work done, he electing to listen to the game on the radio.
He comes scurrying into the room, his sock-clad feet sliding on the wood floors a second before he falls into the couch cushions. "The broadcasters are going nuts, so I need to see this hit."
We watch the replay, cheering and grinning. He lifts his hands to his head, to adjust the brim on an imaginary cap.
"I need to get a new hat," he says. "I left my other one in Beijing."
I nod. We pause for a moment, silently noting the imaginary elephant suddenly standing in the middle of the room. Do I remark on it? Of course I have to.
"Extra points for you, being able to pull that off. 'Oh yeah, you know. I left my other one in Beijing.'"
Oh, sorry. Were you looking for profundity?
The other day I thought of throwing everything away and moving. Without that whole "be both patient and proactive so the right time comes" frame of mind I've adopted.
I could just work at a coffeeshop, write a novel - or four - and ride around the city on my bike.
Then I wondered what I'd do for a coffeebreak when working at a coffeeshop. As I looked out the window, I also thought of how pissed off I'd get trying to navigate puddles and train tracks on my bike. And how many times I'd fall.
I suddenly felt better.
I could just work at a coffeeshop, write a novel - or four - and ride around the city on my bike.
Then I wondered what I'd do for a coffeebreak when working at a coffeeshop. As I looked out the window, I also thought of how pissed off I'd get trying to navigate puddles and train tracks on my bike. And how many times I'd fall.
I suddenly felt better.
5.02.2006
Would you have booed Johnny Damon if you had been at Fenway last night?
It's been the question du jour, with opinions flying around from every possible angle. Some applauded the majority of those at the park last night, others rolled their eyes and said they were disappointed in the response.
Me? Well, I felt a bit ashamed reading Mama Jackie's column in the Globe. Because much as I know she's right, much as I know I should be mature, I know damn well that I would have booing with the rest of 'em.
It's not mature. It's Red Sox-Yankees rivalry. Damon knows it, Jackie knows it, I know it and the 35,000-odd fans at the park knew it last night.
I really don't hate Johnny Damon. I think the behavior demonstrated in the time leading up to the move to New York was juvenile, and I think it's been laughable, the manner in which he has said he's moved on while demonstrating the exact opposite. Everything in Damon Land winds up relating back to the Sox in some manner. He incessently brings up the decision to relocate. He discusses the fans, the front office. A spotlight in New York, with light tracing back to Yawkey Way. A full-page ad in the Globe, interviews, et al.
Compiled, it's so much that it rings of insincerity.
He was a great Red Sox player, and I adored having him on the team. I don't think the Sox would have won the World Series without him. He's still in a framed place of honor on my wall of photography, stretching out the front of a Duck Boat at the victory parade, a grin on his face as he extended his arm in a victory salute.
The helmet tip could have been seen as classy, were it someone who hadn't already put into motion a calculated approach to keeping the discussion going. I felt it was a manufactured gesture. Cliched.
Which is why I own up and admit wholeheartedly that I chortled with glee upon seeing fake (and real, the word is) money tossed onto the warning track behind his place in center field. And why I most certainly got a kick out of the fact that he went 0-for-4 and that Ortiz's home run (the glorious wind-defying shot that it was) happened to land tantalizingly close to Damon's final spot near the bullpen.
So you know what? I'm sorry, Jackie and those who said it was in poor taste for those in the crowd to heckle him so incessently. I'm not going to try to stand on a soapbox and chastize. I would have been right there, doing the same thing.
And I'm awfully OK with that.
Besides, screw Johnny Damon's return to Fenway. How about Doug Mirabelli? I started cheering in my living room at the glorious sight of a #28 uniform jumping out of the police escort and running breakneck back into the green park in which it belongs...
It's been the question du jour, with opinions flying around from every possible angle. Some applauded the majority of those at the park last night, others rolled their eyes and said they were disappointed in the response.
Me? Well, I felt a bit ashamed reading Mama Jackie's column in the Globe. Because much as I know she's right, much as I know I should be mature, I know damn well that I would have booing with the rest of 'em.
It's not mature. It's Red Sox-Yankees rivalry. Damon knows it, Jackie knows it, I know it and the 35,000-odd fans at the park knew it last night.
I really don't hate Johnny Damon. I think the behavior demonstrated in the time leading up to the move to New York was juvenile, and I think it's been laughable, the manner in which he has said he's moved on while demonstrating the exact opposite. Everything in Damon Land winds up relating back to the Sox in some manner. He incessently brings up the decision to relocate. He discusses the fans, the front office. A spotlight in New York, with light tracing back to Yawkey Way. A full-page ad in the Globe, interviews, et al.
Compiled, it's so much that it rings of insincerity.
He was a great Red Sox player, and I adored having him on the team. I don't think the Sox would have won the World Series without him. He's still in a framed place of honor on my wall of photography, stretching out the front of a Duck Boat at the victory parade, a grin on his face as he extended his arm in a victory salute.
The helmet tip could have been seen as classy, were it someone who hadn't already put into motion a calculated approach to keeping the discussion going. I felt it was a manufactured gesture. Cliched.
Which is why I own up and admit wholeheartedly that I chortled with glee upon seeing fake (and real, the word is) money tossed onto the warning track behind his place in center field. And why I most certainly got a kick out of the fact that he went 0-for-4 and that Ortiz's home run (the glorious wind-defying shot that it was) happened to land tantalizingly close to Damon's final spot near the bullpen.
So you know what? I'm sorry, Jackie and those who said it was in poor taste for those in the crowd to heckle him so incessently. I'm not going to try to stand on a soapbox and chastize. I would have been right there, doing the same thing.
And I'm awfully OK with that.
Besides, screw Johnny Damon's return to Fenway. How about Doug Mirabelli? I started cheering in my living room at the glorious sight of a #28 uniform jumping out of the police escort and running breakneck back into the green park in which it belongs...
5.01.2006
Of course, it's the moment I decide to change things around here that I get pulled away to everything other than focusing on, you know, changing things here.
Oops.
In "Elizabethtown," Kirsten Dunst's character urges Orlando Bloom's character to, more or less, dance like nobody's watching. "I say make time to dance alone with one hand waving free" is the exact line. And while watching Orlando dancing away within a tree-lined tunnel was a striking moment, I didn't heed the wisdom of the lines until today.
I found myself in a deserted stairwell, the Ryan Montbleau Band's "Quickie" working its smooth way into my ears. No one around to hear my footsteps. And before I knew it, my little head-bobbing and silent singing had morphed into full-out dance. Swinging around the railing kind of dance. Fun and goofy and
a little saucy because I could be. All by myself in a stairwell, just doing it for the sake of doing it.
And I felt better than I had all day long. The grin on my face was bright as I returned to the daily grind, which suddenly had felt a little less...grinding.
I suppose that's my way of recommending that one heeds the words of Cameron Crowe. The dude knows what he's talking about.
In other news. My notebook will get a workout during the coming days, as I attempt to let the various adventures (misadventures too - fear not) from the last several days spill out from my head onto a page. The driving, the people, the moments - they deserve to be told properly, and I'm looking forward to the challenge.
But I can tell you that it's been fun. Tiring, taxing - so tiring that I actually went through Sunday with a fatigue hangover (that is, symptoms of a hangover when not a drop of alcohol was involved). But fun...
Oops.
In "Elizabethtown," Kirsten Dunst's character urges Orlando Bloom's character to, more or less, dance like nobody's watching. "I say make time to dance alone with one hand waving free" is the exact line. And while watching Orlando dancing away within a tree-lined tunnel was a striking moment, I didn't heed the wisdom of the lines until today.
I found myself in a deserted stairwell, the Ryan Montbleau Band's "Quickie" working its smooth way into my ears. No one around to hear my footsteps. And before I knew it, my little head-bobbing and silent singing had morphed into full-out dance. Swinging around the railing kind of dance. Fun and goofy and
a little saucy because I could be. All by myself in a stairwell, just doing it for the sake of doing it.
And I felt better than I had all day long. The grin on my face was bright as I returned to the daily grind, which suddenly had felt a little less...grinding.
I suppose that's my way of recommending that one heeds the words of Cameron Crowe. The dude knows what he's talking about.
In other news. My notebook will get a workout during the coming days, as I attempt to let the various adventures (misadventures too - fear not) from the last several days spill out from my head onto a page. The driving, the people, the moments - they deserve to be told properly, and I'm looking forward to the challenge.
But I can tell you that it's been fun. Tiring, taxing - so tiring that I actually went through Sunday with a fatigue hangover (that is, symptoms of a hangover when not a drop of alcohol was involved). But fun...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
